Burns are For Losers
by dozefallsdownthestairs
Summary: Upon meeting the undeniably hot fireman Alfred Jones, Arthur decides he could use a spark in his life. Who didn't love a little arson anyway? USUK AU Fireman!Alfred and Arsonist!Arthur
1. Chapter 1

**So another dumb idea is born out of stress, haha. This honestly will probably be FIVE chapters tops. **

**WARNING: This story mainly consists of**

**1. Sexy firemen Alfred **

**2. Poor nerdy grad student Arthur, who turns out to be pretty badass**

**3. ...and arson? Because it's easy to get there, obviously. Alfred plus Arthur must equal some kind of show. **

**Read on if you dare. :P**

On Peter's birthday every year, Arthur wishes he could kill himself. His mum always ropes him into planning parties for his younger brother. Being a graduate student on the verge of mental enlightenment, he cringes at the idea of mutant ninja turtles and transformers. It's not like he has all the time in the world either. Exams are coming up and he hasn't even begun to write one of his final papers.

Besides, things rarely work out for him at party shops.

When he was going through his punk phase, purple hair included, he still remembers the look the cashier gave him as he bought out their Teletubby merchandise. And then even more so the look the police gave him when they busted him with a single joint of marijuana and three hundred thousand assorted Sesame Street stickers. He just wasn't born to be a party planner. A couple years back, the clown had made Peter cry. A couple years forward, the clown had been attacked and violated by boys with waterguns. Arthur wasn't pleased to receive that bill in the post.

He only puts up with it for their mother. He knows she feels bad about not giving her other sons parties when they were younger. She really wants to make sure Peter has his fun. Unfortunately, it often comes at Arthur's expense.

All the same, this year he's made it through the process without incident. The cake arrived on time. The invites all went out. The balloons he worked hours on hanging up are still floating prettily in their places. Only a few of the streamers are scattered on the ground, trod on by ruthless ten-year-old feet. Arthur has even remembered to bring one of the books he's reading for his thesis, for the possible moments where he can slip away.

Right now, he's standing, straightbacked at the door, shaking hands with parents and occasionally with booger-handed anklebiters. His mum his entertaining out on the patio where Peter and his friends have started up a game of running in a circle and screaming. Arthur delicately squirts a dab of hand sanitizer in his palm when there's a break in the stream of people. His mum promised him that if he stays for half of it, he won't be made to clean up afterwards. He's holding her to that.

She acts like it's a big deal that he's there, but he's sure that's only for his benefit. He's certainly very aware that he's the least 'cool' of Peter's older brothers, and that should the little brat be able to choose who could make it to his birthday, Arthur would be his last choice. As it so happens, he's the only one still in the US finishing up his education before completing his plans to move back to his original childhood home in Bristol. Their other brothers are all scattered across the UK in various 'cool' fields, engineering, space technology, and biochemistry.

They've got the 'cool' toys and Arthur's got the dusty books. He doesn't mind being Peter's least favorite. He feels at home in a history book and he prefers to keep it that way, thank you very much.

"Hey, are you the greeter?"

Arthur jolts out of his thoughts, flustered. "Yes, sorry. Er, welcome Mr.?" He trails feeling his face heat up suddenly. The man doesn't seem any older than him. He's got a brilliant, wide smile that manages to catch the light of the sun and bend it into a sparkle, like in ridiculous cartoons. His tan skin crinkles around his nose and his eyes squint upwards when he smiles like that. Ocean teal eyes gleam beneath dirty blonde raised eyebrows. He is unbelievably attractive.

"Mister?" The guy says with a booming laugh that feels like it should shake the pictures on the walls. "What a fancy welcome to the Casa de Peter!" He laughs again, leaving Arthur embarrassingly speechless. He tries to gather his scrambled thoughts, but he's not sure if he's ever seen someone so bloody bright. "Where is the birthday boy anyway?" The man continues and steps into the hallway without further notice.

"H-Hey," Arthur stumbles forward awkwardly. "You can't just walk right in. Do you have an invitation?"

"Alfie! Guys, he's here!"

Arthur turns in surprise to see his brother skipping down the hallway, shouting to his friends. "Alfie, you came!" Peter shouts again, jumping into the man's arms excitably. "Did you bring it? Did ya?"

"Sure did." Alfred's eyes sparkle as a giant crowd of boisterous boys surround him. "Come and see." He leads them all out the front door like the pied piper, leaving Arthur sputtering.

Arthur drops his eyes in dismay to see that they've tracked mud all over his clean rugs. The adults leave him behind too, disappearing to see whatever this Alfred guy has brought out in the cul-de-sac. Arthur feels too embarrassed to follow, so he resorts to fishing out the magic eraser and working on some of the scuff marks on the baseboard.

"Arthur?"

He looks up to see his mother has returned. "Oh, there you are. Why don't you come see this? Peter is wondering where you are."

Like hell Peter is wondering where he is. He rolls his eyes, but decides to do what she asks anyway. Arthur comes to stand on the front porch and is met with the obnoxious sight of a giant red fire engine parked in the middle of the road. Of course. Alfred has suited up in full firemen's gear and is letting the boys take turns holding the giant hose head. From over here, no one notices Arthur so he sees no harm in taking the opportunity to admire Peter's older friend.

Alfred has dirty honey hair that sparkles blonde in the cool sunlight. When he laughs, his eyes squint and his body shakes with it. He shouts just like a ten year old and proceeds to join the group in a rousing game of tag, firemen's suit and all. It's not long before he's sweating enough to wet his hair and to warrant him taking off his gear and sweatshirt. Arthur knows he is openly staring, chin propped up in his hands as he marvels from his porch. He can't help it though.

Alfred's slick muscles show much better without that clunky suit.

Alfred sets up the hose to spray in a giant arching stream from the top of the truck and all the boys run through the cool water screaming. Alfred follows after, getting soaked. He acts like he's five, but Arthur is unbelievably stricken by him. Fuck.

Soon, it's getting dark and the boys are heading back in to prepare for the upcoming sleepover. The adults are thanking Alfred and leaving. Arthur knows he can leave too, but Alfred's giant engine is parked right in front of his clunky Civic. Arthur's mum is still chatting with Alfred, and Alfred follows her up the walkway towards the porch. Arthur barely has time to snap back into a less gawking posture, thankful for the dusk that hides his blush.

"...it's no trouble," his mother is saying as she leads Alfred into the house. "The least we can do is feed you for your efforts. I'm sure Arthur has a dry shirt somewhere that will fit you."

Arthur reddens in embarrassment, but they both walk right past him without seeing. He follows behind, brushing mosquitoes from his ears irritably.

"Who's Arthur?" Alfred asks, taking a stool in their kitchen.

"You haven't met him? He was the one at the door earlier. He's Peter's older brother." She produces an aluminum tray full of grilled hamburger patties and a couple boxes of half-eaten pizzas. "There's some cake too. If you're up for it."

"I'm always up for cake," Alfred laughs warmly as he begins to construct himself a hamburger. "Yeah, I remember Arthur now. We didn't really get the chance to introduce ourselves before Peter pounced me."

"Well, there he is now." She waves at him obliviously and he wishes he could melt into the floor. "Weren't you heading home, poppet?"

"Uh, yeah," Arthur stumbles, cringing when Alfred looks round with a dill pickle hanging out the side of his mouth.

Alfred takes a large crispy bite and swallows roughly. "Hey, you're Arthur!" He says brightly. "The doorman of Casa de Peter, right?"

Arthur scowls indignantly, ignoring his pounding pulse. "What a way to put it. I live here too." He knows he comes across childish, because his mum gives him an aghast look.

"Arthur! You're certainly not being very pleasant. Go get Alfred a shirt, will you? I'm sure you have one somewhere."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "How big do you think I am, mum?" He makes an overdramatic gesture at Alfred's loaded plate of hamburgers and pizza.

"Arthur!" She shrills again. He can hear her apologizing for him as he stalks off down the hallway towards his old bedroom. She ruins everything. He can't look remotely like a mature adult around her, and he hates it.

He grabs one of James' old marathon shirts, but stops before going back out there. He sits on the edge of his dusty old bed and tries to calm himself down. It doesn't work.

He stalks back out and takes an odd sort of glee in pitching the shirt at the back of Alfred's perfect head. Unfortunately, his mother isn't there to see it and Alfred just laughs, scooping the shirt off the floor. "Thanks, man. Have you eaten yet?" He shoves a box of pizza Arthur's way with a friendly smile.

Arthur shifts nervously on the balls of his feet, suddenly wishing his mum would come back and save him. "I don't like that junk." He says snippily.

Alfred grins, kicking the other stool out towards him. "Not even a little bit?"

"No, it's greasy and disgusting." He can't help but cave a tiny bit though, and take the seat.

"That's cool that you're so healthy, man. I try, but..." Alfred shrugs and takes another sloppy bite of pizza. "I always fail."

"It's a lifestyle choice," Arthur says arrogantly, knowing that he could never get remotely close to Alfred's muscle mass either way. If he's being perfectly honest, he eats the most fast food out of his entire family, but Alfred doesn't have to know that.

"So you're Peter's older brother? That's so cool! Were you the one working for like the UK NASA? He's told me about some of the stuff you do and it sounds so sci-fi and awesome."

"No," Arthur grounds out reluctantly when Alfred pauses. He is very close to lying and stealing James' identity, but it's not who he is. It only serves to make him more irritable. "That's our other brother."

"Oh! Sorry! Then you're the one who builds roller coasters?"

"No." Arthur grits his teeth.

"Then the biochemist?"

Arthur just sighs now. "No."

"Peter has another brother?"

This is just like pulling teeth. Arthur nods and rejoins sourly. "Me."

"Oh, sorry," Alfred looks embarrassed. "What do you do?"

"I'm a grad student," Arthur says lamely. "I'm specializing in Colonial America."

"A history dude, I see! That fits you." Alfred says warmly. "Do you enjoy it?"

Arthur is surprised that Alfred doesn't give him the usual look, the one full of 'How are you going to feed yourself, again?'. Alfred just smiles pleasantly, looking genuinely curious. Arthur can feel the blush on his cheeks.

"Of course, I enjoy it. I wouldn't study for a Ph. D. if I didn't," He snarks grumpily, wishing he could act cooler.

Alfred chuckles, "Of course. Duh. Bet you've already guessed what I do."

"You clean toilets?"

"Hey!" Alfred squeaks indignantly, elbowing Arthur in the side. "Does this face look like it could clean toilets?... Wait! Don't anSWER THAT QUESTION!" He finishes shrieking, so that Arthur can't talk over him.

Arthur has to give in to a smile at his ridiculous antics, shaking his head. "You're louder than the boys."

"Fuck right, I am," Alfred giggles and then realizes his mistake. "Sorry, sorry. Duck right. Duck right I am."

Arthurs snorts. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Keepin' it clean for the boys." Alfred suddenly plunges his hand into his baggy firemen trousers. "I've got some Jack if you want a sip." He pulls out a flask mischievously. "Ain't this thing cool? My gramps gave it to me when I turned old enough to drink. I carry it everywhere." He gives Arthur an over exaggerated sexy wink. "Come on, you know I'm the cooliest."

Arthur scoffs, but accepts the flask nonetheless. The warmth of the whiskey is like liquid courage, and he's beginning to like Alfred more and more.

"So," he poses, coughing after a particularly long drink. "How'd you know Peter?"

"I spoke for one of his classes at school. Showed off all my gear and stuff," Alfred says around a mouthful. "My brother's an elementary school teacher so he hooked me up. I love talking to kids about what I do."

Arthur wrinkles his nose.

"What?" Alfred asks.

"Why would you like talking to kids? They don't understand anything, nor do they listen."

Alfred looks disappointed for a second, sending Arthur into a momentary pit of regret for actually voicing his thoughts. But then Alfred smiles. "Oh, I see. They won't listen to you."

Arthur scowls. This is worse. "They don't want to learn!"

"That's not true. They just need to be shown sometimes why things are interesting. Take me, I used to think history was boring as balls. What would you say to me?" He leans forward with intent blue eyes that make Arthur shift uncomfortably.

"I.. I don't know. Nothing. You wouldn't listen."

"Not true," Alfred grins. "Tell me about danger and action and adventure. History is full of it and I never knew! Tell me about Drake the pirate or Doc Holiday the outlaw! Tell me about whoopass wars where the Allies kicked Axis butt! Tell me about fighter planes and conspiracies! Who killed JFK? How did Churchill rally his nation to stand alone against Hitler? How did the American revolutionaries kick Britain's ass with their ragtag army? Tell me about that."

"Hey now," Arthur crosses his arms. "That last one is nothing short of a bit of luck."

Alfred grins, too sexily, leaning forward so that Arthur can smell icing from the cake on his breath. "That was a historical freaking miracle! And it was damned awesome!" He jumps up in his excitement. "Tell me about that stuff, Artie! Those are the real stories! Tell those! People think history is boring because they don't realize how much cooler it is than fiction. You hold the key my friend to hundreds maybe thousands of the best true stories ever un-told."

Arthur is still blustering over the fact that Alfred has just called him 'Artie'. He doesn't know how to respond. Alfred is so spirited about his supposed boring area of study? He feels a flood of validation wash through him, so much so it's painful. He grabs hold of Alfred's flask and takes a long drink.

Alfred laughs, taking it back when he's done. "It's getting late. I should probably head out." He grabs his soaking sweatshirt and swings it over his shoulder. "Don't let Peter get you down. You study the coolest subject ever. I mean, it's literally the record of all the cool things that have ever happened. Keep kickin' ass." He raises his flask and turns it upside down, draining it.

Arthur's face is red as he waves. "Thanks," he hiccups.

Alfred's smile makes a last reappearance. "Night." He wiggles his fingers Arthur's way and then heads out.

Arthur isn't sure how long he sits there smiling to himself like an idiot. That was a surprisingly pleasant conversation. He feels his chest bubbling strangely even in the aftermath. It's more than just the fact that someone so blissfully attractive as Alfred held a conversation with him. Alfred, despite his icky love of children, makes him feel nice. Alfred seemed genuinely invested in listening to him. That quality is rare. He knows how hard it is to _act_ like he gives a damn to some of the people that insist on conversing with him. To actually give a damn is nothing short of astounding.

After an indefinite period of time, his mum returns with the boys to help them make ice cream sundaes. She frowns at him slouching across the counter. Just like a hound dog she scents the whiskey on his breath. She's not even subtle about it. She's angry and dragging him to his bedroom for what could only be described as a timeout. He vaguely hears Peter loudly whispering, "That's not my brother I swear! He doesn't live here! Mum likes to keep him as a pet!"

Nonetheless, it's with stilted, wonderful, drunk dreams of Alfred that he falls asleep in his childhood bed. It's ironic, to say the least, to be experiencing all of this in the place where he'd first started dealing with sexual frustrations. His dreams take him further than he's ever gone with anyone before. When he wakes up sometime in the night with wet warmth in his boxers, he groans. This is so bad.

**0 0 0**

The next morning he tries to play off his hangover as nothing around Peter, who unfortunately is far from stupid. What with four older brothers and many boorish extended family members, Peter has experienced nearly every awkward family incidence. Then again, so has Arthur.

He clears his throat, taking a long fortifying sip of hot tea. "So you're ten now."

Peter looks up at him. "Yeah."

"Double digits," Arthur coughs. "That's pretty cool."

"Yeah, I'm old, now." Peter says solemnly. "Mum says I can have coffee like James and Henry."

"Fascinating," Arthur rubs his aching eyes. "Hey, Peter, you know that man that came the other day... oh what was his name?"

"Alfred?" Peter asks confusedly. "Did you see his firetruck?"

"Yeah, yeah, I did. I thought it was very nice."

"You did?" Peter is astonished.

"Yes, it's very, er, red. It's nice. Do you know where Alfred works?"

"At the fire station," Peter looks at him as if he is an idiot.  
>"No, retard," Arthur loses his patience. "What fire station?"<p>

"Why do you want to know, stupid?" Peter says obnoxiously.

Arthur sighs. "I just want to know, Peter. Can't you tell me? I have to go to school later."

Peter crosses his arms. "Why should I? I don't want your boringness to rub off on him, jerkface. You'd only bother him anyway."

Arthur scowls, holding back the desire to roughhouse Peter into telling him. It's what Murtagh, Henry, and James would have done to him. He takes a deep breath, glancing towards the entryway. Their mum is nowhere in sight. "What do you want for it?" He grumbles reluctantly.

Peter's eyes widen as he realizes how far Arthur is willing to go. "A remote control helicopter."

Arthur groans. "Didn't somebody get you that for your birthday?"

"No! Mum said it was too expensive!"

"That's lovely." Arthur cringes. He has limited funds, and most of those limited funds are going towards school and rent. It's possible he could take up dorm residence as an RA for next semester, but the idea of it is enough to make him vomit. When his mum walks in, he has a better idea.

"Hey mum," he begins casually. "You know the firemen that came in the other day. What fire station does he work at?"

"Why?" She asks, raising her eyebrows suspiciously. She's obviously thinking about how she found him half-drunk last night. Arthur has to refrain from rolling his eyes. It has to be because he dresses nicely that she assumes he never gets into trouble anymore.

"I'm thinking of writing him a thank-you card for coming out like that. It made the party a real hit, and no one paid him for it."

"Oh," she smiles pleasantly. "That would be such a nice thing to do, Arthur. Let's see..." She trails and Arthur's stomach drops. "Actually... I'm not sure what station he works at. There are a couple around here, aren't there? Peter, do you know?"

"Nope," Peter says around a mouthful of pancakes, smirking when Arthur glares at him incredulously. Here he was about to buy the twerp a new expensive toy for nothing.

"Oh well. I'm sure you can just look him up in the phonebook," his mum suggests as she puts some bacon on the stove.

"Oh yeah," Arthur relaxes, "I could do that." He had been too afraid last night to ask for a number, but if he looks for an address in the phonebook he really can use the thank-you note excuse to talk to Alfred again. He wants to see Alfred again. Even if there's a large chance Alfred isn't gay, Arthur can't help wanting to torture himself. It's like window shopping. He can look, maybe even touch, just no taking.

Something then occurs to him. "What was Alfred's last name again?"

"Oh shoot," his mum frowns slightly. "I don't believe I ever asked. Peter, do you know?"

"Uh..." Peter shrugs his shoulders. "Nope. I just met him at school."

"Oh!" Arthur manages to pull his thoughts together. "What's your teacher's name, Peter? He said his brother was the teacher."

"Mr. Williams." Peter reports.

"Alfred Williams, then," Arthur nods proudly for his deduction skills. "I'll just look him up. Easy."

0 0 0

**Oh, Arthur so close but so far. We'll see just how... interesting his methods get over time! I wrote this in present tense for a change, so hopefully it didn't read too odd. **

**If you like it so far, reviews are especially tasty treats. I should update this in a WEEK, so check then. Thanks so much for your support, doze.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! I updated this thing on time! Woot! Thanks so much to all the reviewers, followers and favoriters. You're so encouraging. You wouldn't even believe it. **

**For future reference in this story: **Murtagh**: Scotland. **Henry**: Wales. **James**: Northern Ireland.**

Arthur drops his forehead against the countertop in despair. His apartment rings with the soothing sound of Chopin, but he can't even begin to listen. Various tea-stained mugs are scattered around him, along with a guilt-inducing amount of crisp wrappers. He's gone through every fucking yellowbook from the past ten years, and not one of them has an Alfred Williams.

There's a limited amount of options he can take from here. He could attempt to ring every fire station in the area, which as he's found in his search through yellowbook history, is quite a lot of stations. In fact, he makes a mental note to Google how many fire stations it's normal to have in a general area. He's pretty sure his town has at least twice that.

Eventually, Arthur decides that the best thing to do would be to try and get in contact with Alfred's brother. Of course, then, he has the same problem. He doesn't know this Williams guy's first name, so he can't find him in the phonebook.

Arthur wonders if this is the universe's way of telling him to give up on finding Alfred. As he slides to his feet and begins cleaning up the mess he made, it depresses him. Okay, it is a bit ridiculous to think something like this could go somewhere. But...

Well, Arthur hasn't found anyone in college. It doesn't worry him because he's still young, of course, but he does eventually _hope _that maybe there will be someone. Even if it's only casual or temporary. He's felt so lost in this regard since he graduated high school and decided he'd rather have a real relationship instead of fuck around. It just bothers him that in nearly five years he hasn't found anyone.

So maybe he is a bit antsy when it comes to Alfred, but it's the first time in a long time that someone could be so interesting as to make him forget he brought a book along.

The next few days pass and despite himself Arthur formulates a plan. If he can't find Alfred's brother in the phonebook, he can just go talk to him in person. And then get Alfred's number. It shouldn't be hard. He just needs an excuse to show up at an elementary school.

0 0 0

"Arthur?"

"Mmm?" He carefully places a bookmark between the pages and looks up from the kitchen counter at his mum's house.

His mother squints at him curiously. "It's odd that you've stopped by so often this week."

It's a statement, but she says it like a question. Arthur shrugs innocently, as best he can. "I guess I've just missed home," he says. He isn't surprised when she only clicks her tongue. She knows how he feels about this place, that it isn't his home. He's always had his name on a one-way ticket back to England ever since he arrived in America at fifteen.

She smiles anyway. "Well, isn't that a sweet thing to say? Are you keeping up with your studies?"

"Yes, they're fine." He nonchalantly edges the book out of her line of sight. Arthur has a penchant for 'adult entertainment literature'. It's just an added bonus that she assumes he's studying. "Mum?"

She has her back to him washing dishes. "Mmm?"

"I was thinking of picking Peter up for you later if that's alright. I've got errands around that part of town. It wouldn't be a big deal."

Arthur waits with baited breath. She pauses in her dish washing. "Why the sudden desire to be helpful?"

"Can't I help my own mother?" He shoots back.

She doesn't answer him for several minutes, shutting off the faucet and drying her hands. She comes over and kisses him on top of the head. "I'm afraid I don't have you signed off as someone that could pick him up. Only James and I are on the registrar. They wouldn't let you take him."

"James?" Arthur's mouth drops in disbelief. "James is in Northern Ireland! Why is he signed off to take Peter for Christ's sake?"

She scowls giving him a thwack on the ear. "Arthur, you know how I feel about oaths!"

Arthur only scowls back grumpily, gathering up his book. Now that his plan is thwarted, he has no reason to sit around in this hellhole. He needs another plan.

0 0 0

The next day he arrives early to his mum's house, too early to be considered normal. But it doesn't matter because he has a key and can let himself in. When she wakes up, he'll find some excuse for why he is there. Forgot something. Needed a childhood relic. Etc. It'll work.

He's a little embarrassed of his new plan, but he also thinks it's pure genius. His mum always packs Peter a lunch for school, full of her little gourmet treats and fancy cookie cutter sandwiches and love notes shaped like fucking hearts with doily edges.

Arthur realizes he's started to scowl thinking about it. It's ridiculous for him to be feeling this way since he's almost 24, but he _never once _received stuff like that in primary. He is not jealous, just rightfully indignant. But that isn't the point.

The point is that Peter always brings a packed lunch to school. If Arthur can somehow sneak it away before Peter gets out the door this morning, then Peter will be missing his lunch. Then, he'll need someone to bring it to him. Lo and behold, Arthur gladly steps in, amazing big brother that he is, and offers to drive it to school for his mother.

Bam! He's in and can go find this Williams guy.

Piece of cake, he thinks proudly as he scrounges around for stuff to nibble on while he waits for everyone to wake up.

His mother isn't super-excited to see him at six in the morning, which is expected but still stings. Especially when she makes Peter breakfast and ignores him. It's simply beside the point that Arthur finished off their box of cherry Pop-tarts. He's still her son and if she's making breakfast for Peter, she has to make breakfast for him.

She doesn't though and he glares moodily at her the whole time she puts together Peter's lunch. Just looking at that pristine metal lunchbox, shiny and perfect, flashes him suddenly backwards to his paper sack days, where pricks squish his PBJs on purpose. Of course, Peter's much better taken care of than that.

Arthur shuffles off to sit at the telly, where Peter is entertaining himself with cartoon re-runs. He glances over, noticing a flyer clutched in the brat's hands.

"What's that?" He waves toward it, earning himself a scowl for his efforts.

"Nothing." Peter says too quickly with more than a hint of defiance. He knows Arthur wouldn't dare do anything to him. Arthur's a big kid after all. Big kids get in trouble for hurting innocent, cute, little kids like Peter. James, the wiliest of his older brothers, has also assured him that Arthur can't punch for shit.

Arthur scowls nastily, which is always the closest he gets to actually being mean. "I was just being polite, Peter. It's polite to ask other people about their lives every once in awhile."

Peter shrugs, clutching the flyer to his chest so Arthur can't see. But Arthur's more observant than he realizes, and he can't hide everything on the coffee table.

"Who are you writing?" Arthur asks, gesturing to the sheet of stamps and pad of stationary.

"None of your business, jerk! Why are you here? Don't you have a job or school or something? Why do you have to bother mum and me?" Peter snarls back, his cheeks reddening. Now, Arthur's going to tell Mum. Stupid jerkface, always getting into his business.

He sees something flicker in Arthur's green eyes and he realizes he might have hit a nerve. "Yeah, why do you keep coming here? Aren't you an adult? No one wants you here, jerk! You must be such a baby coming home all the time to see mummy! James and Henry and Murtagh would nev-" But he doesn't get to finish his sentence, because Arthur is pushing him onto the floor, forcefully.

The shove is rough, but it's obvious Arthur isn't using all of his strength. "Let me see that." Arthur demands and finally rips the flyer from Peter's grasp. "Career Day," he reads aloud in a jeering tone. "Dear parents, this a time for our bright youngsters to experience the world around them." He scoffs. "Is that you, Peter? Are you a bright youngster ready to experience the world?"

"Stop it, Arthur!" Peter screeches, wriggling underneath him. "Give it back!"

Arthur, who has always been on the receiving end of this sort of torture, continues, "Mr. Williams and Mrs. Burnet's fourth grade classes are having their career days!- how fun! are you looking forward to that Peter? maybe find a cool job for your limitless future- The students may bring one adult, parent or older sibling with an interesting, exotic or exciting... that they are proud to show to..." Arthur trails abruptly, seeing where this is going.

Peter has had enough. "Damn it, Arthur! Get off me! I hate you!"

This shrieking brings their mother around the corner.

"Arthur!" She shouts and Arthur can tell she is mad. Never mind that Peter just cussed and she doesn't give a damn. "Get off of your brother right now! Honestly," she huffs as he gathers himself and stands, brushing down his rumpled sweater vest. "You're twenty three years old, Arthur. You're acting like such a child."

Arthur finds he doesn't have anything to say, so he adopts the 'so what' punkish look he used to wear in high school. This only infuriates her more and she sends him scrambling with one glare. He can hear her comforting Peter, who whines as if the world's ending. Brat. Arthur barely touched him.

He knows what Peter was doing, though. Peter was writing one of their other brothers to see if they could come and speak. Of course, the date on the flyer is much too short notice for one of them to actually come. Arthur senses that his mother has already told Peter this, but Peter insists on sneaking behind her back and writing anyway, in the hopes that one of his cool brothers might be able to show up. Arthur swallows roughly. He doesn't even technically have a job yet. And even if he did, he hates children. He'd never want to share in front of them anyway.

Damn it, this is all just distracting him from what he came here to do. In his mother's hustle to get Peter ready on time, it's not all that difficult to slip the lunch away from Peter's neatly packed bookbag. Arthur meets Peter's glare emotionlessly as he troops out the door without even thinking of his lunch.

Once they're alone, his mother gives him an aghast look.

"Has something been happening at school?" She asks him like he's five.

"No, mum." He answers dully, unable to come up with a good excuse. She eventually flakes off and leaves him alone.

He settles on their brown leather couch with his porn book and Peter's sack lunch to wait. All is quiet in the house after she starts doing laundry in the other room. The book can't seem to hold Arthur's attention, so he takes to examining the shiny lunch box instead. His curiosity gets the better of him and he cracks it open for a peak.

He rolls his eyes at the overly sentimental note that tumbles out first.

Does Peter really need to be told everyday that she loves him and she hopes he's having a good time and she knows he'll be a good boy and... seriously?

Arthur scowls. It's only one more day before he receives his thirty dollar weekly allowance. Thirty dollars? How is that fair? Arthur doesn't even make that much working four hours at the grocers. Like hell Peter does chores.

Arthur groans. What he needs is a pick-me-up. Embarrassingly, his thoughts fly straight to Alfred, and he considers sneaking off to the bathroom with a pair of headphones. He feels a tingle run down his spine just thinking of Alfred touching him that way. Arthur bites his lip. Fantasizing is his strong suit.

But then he's imagining his mum walking in on him fisting himself and decides he'd rather pass. Peter's pudding cup will do him just fine.

Arthur will admit. He gets a bit carried away, but she's made Peter tuna. And Arthur _likes_ tuna. Plus he hasn't had fruit snacks since he was Peter's age! Nonetheless, he jumps nearly three thousand meters in the air when she appears like a vengeful spirit from behind.

"Arthur, for God's sake! What are you doing?"

He can feel his face turning red. He doesn't really have an answer, and his mum looks so plain shocked that her 23 year old son has literally stolen a lunch from a 10 year old.

"Mum, I..." he begins lamely. His brain flies to come up with something, anything. "I'm running low on cash." It's a complete lie. Sure, his funds are tight, but he isn't starving.

"Arthur Oliver Kirkland," She rests a hand on her forehead and then looks long and hard at the ceiling. "I thought you wanted to go back to the UK."

Arthur's brows rise. He thinks this is a bit off topic, but he'll take the out. "I do."

"Then why is it..." she exhales in frustration. "Why is it that every chance you get you still stick around?"

He blinks, a scowl settling onto his features. "What are you talking about? I'd be out of here as soon as I had the money."

"Really?" She scoffs, and Arthur's mouth opens in disbelief. "Arthur, you could have gone to university at Cambridge. You didn't. You could have taken masters at Edinburgh or Oxford or anywhere you wanted. You're smart enough. But you didn't. I saw the letters. I saw the opportunities. Of all my sons, I thought you'd be the one who would really put effort into his education. Why did you settle for a nobody community college and a state university if you wanted to go back so bad? What do you want in life, Arthur? You want to stay here forever?"

Arthur blushes indignantly, feeling his fingers curl into fists. He stands, letting the wrappers and the lunchbox fall to the carpet without notice. "I stayed for you!" He shouts in exasperation. She can't be serious. She knows this. "Because you had to go and get knocked up by some guy and land yourself with another brat. You didn't know what the hell you were doing when father left. You had a five year old son and everybody, everybody! left you. Murtagh, James, Henry, they went back! I stayed!"

"I didn't need you to stay! Arthur, I took care of you and your brothers without your father for the longest time." she interrupts him, her face hot. "How would you have ever been any help? You were eighteen! You expected a meal, a bed, clothes, a house. You just made everything worse! It would have been better if you had left."

The vitriol in her words stuns him. He's always been her sweet Arthur who stayed behind to make sure she and Peter were okay. Her self-sacrificing, humble, little knight. Apparently, he was mistaken. He supposes this is what it means to grow up and understand what you were missing.

"A lot of people seem to feel that way," he observes sharply. His anger gets the better of him and he gives the lunchbox a hard kick, sending it flying into the wall.

He leaves then. There's nothing else to do. Plan B is a burnout.

As he drives back to his apartment, he squeezes and releases the steering wheel, watching his knuckles go white. He doesn't deserve this. How much more ungrateful could she possibly be! It wasn't just that he stayed and tried to work a job. He stayed so she wouldn't be alone. But apparently, his company's not worth anything. Not to her. Not to Peter. He planned the brat's goddamn birthday party for crying out loud!

Here she just sits on her high throne berating him for not knowing what exactly he's doing with his life, what has she done with hers? He just wants to be happy. That's it. There it is. He wants to study what he loves with people that he loves in a place that he can tolerate. For the longest time, he thought that that was here.

But he's beginning to have his doubts.

It's without any reluctance that he parks his car at the petrol station. Three bottles of scotch, five packs of cigarettes, and a case of cheap lighters, he is officially done for the week, maybe for the year.

0 0 0

Peter's eyes nearly fall out of his skull. No, this is bad. This is so bad.

"Peter, is that your brother?" His friend Shei lowers her voice in surprise. Peter tries to shake his head, but it's too obvious. Damn their related eyebrows. Damn them.

Peter honestly can't believe it though. Why would Arthur do such a thing? Arthur must hate him more than he's ever realized. This is too far.

Arthur finally spots him in the crowd and starts heading his way. Peter knows it's too late to hide. He takes a deep breath and smiles weakly at his friends. This is going to be the worst career day, ever.

0 0 0

Arthur takes the plastic seat behind Peter in the auditorium, his head buzzing. Peter is waving threateningly at him, but he pays no notice. His hand is shaking near his pockets, and he wishes more than anything he could pull out a cigarette. He doesn't want to be here, but it's been nearly a month since Peter's birthday and he's desperate enough to invite himself. Williams, Williams, he just needs Williams and then he can leave.

If his mum wants him to live more for himself, then fine. That starts with finding someone who's going to make him feel better. He doesn't even have the motivation to read, which has never happened to him before.

It's childish but... Arthur swallows.

"_Don't let Peter get you down. You study the coolest subject ever... Keep kickin' ass!"_

He squirms, wringing his hands together. If he can just hear words like that one more time...

"Alright!" A frazzle-haired female teacher practically jitters her way across the small stage. "Who's ready for career day?" There are some enthusiastic cheers from random sections. Arthur spots a boy with his nose in a book and feels like he's found his younger spirit animal.

"Yes, we're all excited! Now, thank you so much for coming parents and siblings! We all really appreciate your participation and can't wait to hear what you have to share with us. Does anybody have any questions before we begin?"

This is the part where everybody twiddles their thumbs awkwardly. But Arthur decides he does have a question. And that he'd rather get this over with.

"I've got a question," he stands up because he's in the back. He doesn't fail to hear Peter's groan. "Is there a Mr. Williams I can speak to?"

The frazzle lady frowns. "Oh no, I'm so sorry sir. He's away in Canada visiting family."

What the hell? Alfred's brother lives in Canada? Arthur shakes his head to clear it. "No, I really need to talk with him. When will he be back?"

"Not for several months. I'm sorry."

Arthur can only stare for a minute. The rest of the auditorium watches him awkwardly, waiting for him to take a seat again. But he doesn't. He's done with this. Everywhere he goes it's another fucking rejection and you know what? He's done with this. Plan C has gone up in flames. He needs a cigarette.

The room explodes in loud whispers, but Arthur doesn't pay it any mind and stalks straight out. Rounding the corner and slamming into the first boy's bathroom he sees. He leans against the door, so that no one can get in, and lights up. The first breath brings him clarity with dizzying speed.

He feels almost sick. Of course, he's never going to be able to find Alfred. It's the metaphor of his entire life.

Arthur's hand starts to shake and he whirls suddenly, giving the trash bin a sharp kick, sending it banging on its side. He breathes out heavily, taking a step backwards only to hear a sharp _crack_.

"Oh shit," he mutters in exasperation. He must have dropped his lighter and now he's stepped on it. The fluid's all over the floor. That was a decent lighter too.

He bends down with a couple paper towels and tries to mop it up, but it's trickling all through the cracks of the tiles. Arthur cusses again and decides to just give it up. It'll eventually dry. As he's standing, the cigarette slips from his teeth. And he realizes in point two seconds what's about to happen.

"Oh holy living fuck," he blurts and lunges for it.

Today is not his day.

If he had been in a less innocent place, like a back alley or an old warehouse, he would have thought it was fascinating. The way the lighter fluid caught from the end of his nearly spent cigarette and ignited. The floor glistens in sharp, crackling grid-like patterns of fire as the flames follow the tracks of fluid through the tile grout.

His heart starts to pound when the trash that has scattered across the floor takes light. The flames dissolve the paper towels and gum wrappers like nothing. The plastic trash bin begins to melt. It's then that an irrational fear ignites in Arthur's gut, a panic that makes his heart fly. He needs to get out of here. He turns to flee, but another sharp crack stops him in his tracks.

"Shit!" he shouts. Another crushed lighter is underneath his foot. How is this happening? How…? He jerks his jacket pocket up to see that there's a giant hole in the bottom. He fumbles and drops another one. It turns out it was a pretty dumb decision just to shove the whole pack into his pocket after all. He's just needed a lot of lighters recently, what with his fall from grace to comforting cancersticks.

With three crushed and cracked lighters scattered about him, Arthur's panic is complete and he bolts. He can't help it. This reminds him too much of getting expelled in high school for lighting fire to the football field. Despite his rough image at the time, that had been an accident too. Arthur just has an affinity for lighting things on fire. Just ask his cooking.

He has enough sense to pull the fire alarm before he ducks out the emergency exit.

He doesn't stop running, or rather, can't stop running until he reaches the nearby outcropping forest, his heart thundering wildly. By then, he's out of breath and crashes sideways to support himself against the rough bark of a tree. It's only a matter of minutes before he hears the far-off sound of sirens.

His palms start to sweat. Will they figure out it was him? Will he get in trouble? Damn it all! What is the punishment for lighting an elementary school on fire anyway? It's damage to property certainly, endangering children. What if he kills one of them? Oh shit, why didn't he try and put it out first!

Arthur anxiously pulls on his fingers. His car is still over there, too. If he can get in it and get away before the firetruck reaches the school parking lot, then he can say he was already driving home, right?

With his decision made, he bolts again, cursing the fact that he ever took up smoking in the first place. A nasty stitch in his side is close to making him vomit. He fumbles for his keys upon reaching the clunker, but the blasting sound of a horn is undeniable. He drops them on the pavement.

The giant red engine overtakes the parking lot by storm followed by a train of two police cars and an ambulance. Arthur feels like he might faint.

But nobody notices him as they all rush for the building. Children are pouring out the front doors, being yanked by their teachers out of the way of the firemen.

Firemen… Arthur stops dead.

Firemen are here. They're here because of the fire. They have to come because there's a fire.

"There's a fire," he whispers to himself, leaning back weakly against his car. "Oh my god, there's a fire."

He peers carefully over the edge of his car, watching as the remaining firemen shout commands to each other. He doesn't recognize any of them, all balding older men. The bright flash of sun on the side of the truck brings his attention to the letters there.

"Wrong district." His eyes widen. "It's the wrong district."

For the life of him, he can't remember what the letters looked like on Alfred's truck, but he knows this is the wrong district. Which would equal the wrong responders.

His mind is already racing ahead of him.

Hypothetically, light a fire in the right district and the right responders will appear.

Arthur slowly straightens up. He adjusts his rumpled Polo and attempts to stop his hands from shaking.

Right district equals right responders. It's not a hard equation. In Alfred's district, Alfred might respond.

Alfred would have to respond.

Arthur slowly gets into his vehicle.

Alfred will respond.

Maybe he is going crazy, but this seems ludicrously simple. He carefully slips one of his hands into his pocket. The cool plastic of his final lighter greets his fingers like an old friend.

He's going to need some black clothes.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry no Alfred appearance in this chapter. :( But he will be arriving shortly. I promise. I adore the big lovable dork. <strong>

**I have two younger siblings and three older siblings, so Artie's particular position in this story is so relatable. Haha. Well, except for the arson thing. I'm not there quite yet.**

**Can I get a shout out to middle children? :P **

**Thanks so much for reading! Next chapter should be up next week! much love, doze**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, here's chapter number 3 on Sunday night per usual. I am really giving myself a pat on the back for updating on a weekly basis so far. Hell yeah!**

**On an entirely random side note, I got to hold a hundred pound burmese python today. I never realized it but reptile conventions are totally my thing. I've only been to one and now I'm entirely obsessed. Anyone know any colleges that allow pets by any chance? Help a buddy out? :)**

**Also, I've been on a writing binge and have posted two new stories this weekend. If you're up for continued exposure to my weebness, you should totally check them out. :P**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Arthur contemplates the tools laid out in front of him, biting his lip. There's a can of petrol which should last him awhile if he's careful. A pair of black trousers, a tight-fitting black turtle neck, black Converse, some black gloves and a beanie.<p>

He feels like a primary school student about to rob a bank. Balls.

He paces anxiously over to where he's spread out the map of the six districts in their city area. Five fires, five places. He's already set fire at the school on accident, so that's one district down.

"Five fires," he murmurs to himself. "That's easy. I can do this."

Nonetheless, his fingers seek out a cigarette and he smokes fretfully, trying to gather up the courage to actually get dressed in his gear. He eyes the lighter with dismay. Friend turned enemy it seems.

"If..." he trails, looking for a way to lighten the mood. "If I find Alfred tonight, then... I won't ever smoke again."

This falls too seriously on him, though. And he smokes an extra one for the stress it brings him.

Eventually, he does get suited in his gear. He tugs at the turtle neck uncomfortably, wishing he had another black shirt.

"Okay..." He says to himself quietly. "All I need to do is light a small fire. Hide. Phone in and wait. E-easy."

Arthur pushes away the jitters, steeling himself. It'll be worth it. Of course, it will.

He brings his car around a couple blocks away from the designated spot. The night sparkles all around him with stars. Hoot owls call out to each other in the silence. Not a person is in sight. He's specifically picked abandoned sites, so as not to harm anyone.

He gathers up his courage and gets out, clutching the petrol can to his chest. As he walks, his heart pounds. This is such a dumb idea. He could just phone the firestations. Why does he have to resort to lighting fires?

The petrol makes an icky squelching noise when he starts to pour it over the dead grass. He tips the can up and splashes a bit on the front entryway of the blackened building. The windows are all shattered. Graffiti plays its way around and across the sides. Arthur slops more petrol through the gaping black doorway. The door is long gone. He finds himself unwilling to venture into its black interior, so he just flings more petrol in that dark direction. His hands shake horribly.

He knows he's not being very careful. Suddenly, all he can think of is getting out of here.

Whatever kind of stupid rebellion he's pulling is just plain mental.

The skittering of some kind of animal makes him jump and he drops the whole can.

"Oh... shit!" His voice cracks as it dribbles all about his shoes, making them shiny in the moonlight. He might cry. He's near it.

He should just leave. Really. This never happened.

But something has rooted his feet. Oddly enough, it's the Great Chicago Fire that's on his mind. How no one's exactly sure how it started. All the Wikipedia articles of late nights start to swim together. How arson is the easiest crime to get away with. All the evidence burns up.

Arthur feels an odd curiosity that has nothing to do with Alfred. They wouldn't be able to catch him, would they? No one's around to see. No one's around to get hurt. If he strikes the match and runs. No one would even have to know for awhile, if he didn't want to phone.

He bites his lip, balling his hands up and shoving them into his pockets while he thinks. A slip of paper within grabs his attention and he pulls it out curiously. An invitation to Peter's party, he wrinkles his nose at it. The design is simple. Something any beginner could do in Photoshop. He did it on his work break and had to pay for printing the paper on campus.

Arthur crumples it up and tosses it. He smiles slightly as the printed colors blur with the liquid petrol, becoming darker and then illegible. He pulls his lighter out, clicking the flame on and off. Decision made, he shakes his head. There must have been something extra in that tobacco.

He leans down, slightly breathless. But before he can chicken out or change his mind the fire catches, and what a flame it is! Arthur stumbles backwards so his shoes don't catch.

He can't help but laugh in disbelief at his own daring. It's an odd rush watching the walls, the porch, the gaping windows suddenly ignite. He turns and sprints, heart pounding wildly.

He almost feels like shouting, "For anarchy!" But decides that might be a little too Sex Pistols even for him.

Once he reaches the sidewalk, Arthur slows to a jog. He throws a look over his shoulder to admire the beacon he's created. He almost wants to take a picture.

His car comes into view around the corner and he beams. He rips off his beanie, so that his hair is wilder than a lion's mane. But he's too ecstatic to worry about it.

His mobile awaits him in the glove compartment. He gets rid of his stinky gloves in the backseat.

He doesn't see any reason to disguise his voice the first time. "Hello 911? Yes, I'd like to report a fire on 35th…"

Ultimately, he's disappointed. From his vantage point in his beat up Civic, there's only unfamiliar faces. The firemen are all ugly, unimportant people that he couldn't care less about.

He's not _too_ bummed though. In fact, he's missed this rush. When he got to college, he just sort of assumed that's when you grew up and stopped doing stupid things for the hell of them. Now, he knows that theory's shit.

He'll find Alfred, and he'll do it the easiest way possible. By lighting fires.

0 0 0

"Cooooooooome oooon!" Alfred whines, throwing his arms up in the air. "You don't understand, Gil! I took night watch last time! Why do I have to do it fucking twice in a row?"

Gilbert raises his eyebrows without the slightest bit of care in his black heart. He stubs his cigarette in the ash tray, standing up to head for bed. "You're the youngest here. Seniority rules, puppy."

Alfred pouts, sending a despairing glare around the empty firehouse kitchen. The others are up tucked away in bunk beds and he's set to keep watch at one in the morning. He eyes the shiny black bell on the wall irritably. It's safety policy that one of them always be awake.

"But... I love sleep," Alfred mumbles, fingering the edge of a worn library book in front of him. "My life tends to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?"

Gilbert is unimpressed. "If this is more quoting famous literary figures, you should know I don't care jackshit. Goodnight, wonderboy."

"That was Hemingway," Alfred inserts, desperate to keep his company. "Did you know he wrote stories around World War-"

"Shut up, Alfred!" Gilbert groans. "Damn it. Since when were you such a fucking nerd?"

Alfred sticks his tongue out childishly, fingering his library book again. "I learned that in high school, okay? Sorry. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded by sleep.' That's Shakespeare, did you know that?"

Gilbert eyes him for a very long time, debating whether to just drop it or to kick his ass for it. "Why this sudden interest in literary bullshit? You're a firefighter in case you didn't notice, dumbfuck. What's the use of more education? I thought you wanted to save lives not start a book club."

Alfred rolls his eyes. "I do, man. This..." he holds up the copy of Shakespeare. "Just... something I didn't know anything about. I wanted to check it out."

"Yeah, why?"

Alfred shrugs. "Jeez, I don't know. I met a guy who was really into stuff like this and realized I didn't know jackshit. That's... "

Gilbert is smirking and it's making Alfred scowl. Heat crawls irrationally up the back of his neck.

"What are you smiling at?" He demands.

Gilbert just shakes his head. "You're so damned obvious, Wonderboy. It's painful sometimes. I'm going to sleep."

"Obvious, my ass," Alfred grumbles, going on to mumble something about not having a phone number so what the hell difference did it make.

Gilbert is about to walk out, when he rejoins. "Just don't forget. You owe it to me. Wake me up first if there's any word from what we think is the serial."

Alfred's eyebrows lift and he forgets what they were talking about previously. "Hell, if there's word about the serial. I'm going, too. No one ever does arson like that anymore, regular and reckless."

Gilbert grins. "You have to appreciate the traditionalists in some ways. No one's dead yet. What's a little property loss off some rich guy's asshole?" He cackles. "Nah. But whoever it is, their ship's gunna sink. Things don't burn forever."

"No they don't." Alfred gives Gilbert a sarcastic salute as the sorry son of a bitch leaves him on duty.

Once he is sure Gilbert's gone, Alfred returns to his deciphering of Shakespeare, wondering how anybody could write a story to be more complicated. The words sound beautiful together, but sometimes it can take him hours to understand the full meaning of an Act. Even then, he's unsure if he's really getting it. He can understand why people spend their whole lives studying this.

Of course, he doesn't actually know anybody who's studying Literature. He regards the book crossly, before setting it aside. The only other books the firehouse contains are America: The Last, Best Hope, Twilight, and Cooking for Dummies. He attempted America, tossed Twilight, and ravished Cooking for Dummies. He's a closet chef and proud.

Either way, though, it's frustrating. Looking at books like Shakespeare or even America, he feels like he's missing large chunks of the world, like there's only so much he'll ever be able to understand. Talking to...

Alfred stops his train of thought immediately. Out of habit, he checks to make sure no one has seen him blushing. He likes his little firehouse and group of guys. He loves the honest work and the excitement. His grades have never been great, but he always knew he'd join 'the force'. Find his place. He assumed he was happy this way.

It's just... recently...

After certain conversations, he's been wondering things. Like what does the Declaration of Independence actually say? Sure, he read it... in like fourth grade? There was a lost cause Civics class in there somewhere. And why is it that people like Paul Revere are so well known? Sure, the British are coming. But how did Paul come to be riding that night? Wasn't there an underground plot? A group of crazyass guys with a rebellious plan?

Alfred's always been curious. When he goes to schools to talk to kids about fire safety, he'll always find himself reading their little reports on the walls or looking at their poster boards detailing science experiments or history facts. He can't help it if he's dumb and it takes him five hours to get through one page of Shakespeare.

He eyes the book angrily. He used to think the reason he did bad in school was because he didn't want to know. The real reason, that everybody always knew from the start, was that he was stupid, slow. It didn't matter how much he pretended he didn't want to know. Even if he did, it would be too hard to keep up.

Alfred shakes his head, jostling away the bitter memories. It's over and through now. Alfred isn't made for school, and school isn't made for Alfred. He's found a job that makes him happy and helps people. That's all he's really wanted.

So... it is odd.

At least, he thinks so. That a conversation with a book-nosed school type has him so enamored. It is odd, right? They say you only remember _important_ conversations a month later. Alfred lays his hand atop the library book, biting his lip. Of course, there are... other reasons this particular conversation is never far from his mind.

He likes green eyes. They're unique, almost scary when they're so bright as to glow. He also has a thing for accents. Words can have so much more flavor when they're garbled differently in somebody else's mouth.

Alfred closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. There's lots of things he'd like to do with somebody else's mouth.

He groans.

Realistically, he's just found a new type, an utterly unique, super specific category. It's hard to deny how he feels about that certain type of body. Someone so dicey, you'd almost never be able to get a hold of them. He gets excited thinking of grabbing thin wrists and pinning his kill... to horizontal surfaces for other purposes.

But that's just in his mind. He plans to keep it that way. It is kind of weird, after all, to imagine doing that to someone he's only met once.

Besides, he's busy. His job would never allow him enough time to pursue something with another person.

Alfred sighs. As awesome as being a fireman is, it can get pretty damn lonely after awhile. He props his chin up and returns to Shakespeare. The soft whisper of pages is his only company in the waxing night.

...

The siren wakes him like a yowling baby. Alfred jolts, realizing in horror that he'd dropped off.

"Up!" He shouts, leaping to his feet. "Up, everybody up! There's a fire on the junction between Oak and 2nd!"

The thud of feet above him is soon accompanied by the screech of hands on metal sliding poles. Alfred jogs to join them, slipping into his fire gear.

"Oak and 2nd..." He murmurs to himself, trying to unfog his brain. "Oak and 2nd..."

Oak and 2nd is an abandoned downtown area. He feels his heart start to race.

Looking over, Gilbert has grabbed onto the side of the truck next to him. He grins with pointed teeth. The moonlight that falls in slats through the high garage windows makes his red eyes eerie. "Ready to see some arson, Alfie?"

The fire is an utter monster by the time they arrive. Raging and tearing and whipping, eating up every bit of building in its climb upwards. Heat stuns them as soon as they step out of the truck. The scent of gasoline is putrid in the air.

Alfred immediately begins unwinding the hose, while Gilbert puts on a mask to check for civilians inside. Abruptly, the hose is yanked from Alfred's palms, and he looks up, mouth open. The fire chief himself has hopped on for the ride apparently. That proves it then. This is suspected arson. Alfred has heard the guys whispering on the way there about what an affront to the city this has been. Ten fires thought to be connected and still no lead.

Alfred watches as the fire chief pulls the older more experienced firemen forward. With an inconsiderate flip of his hand, he sends Alfred to man the supplies.

Alfred's teeth grit at being so suddenly dumped out of the action. He keeps a disgruntled eye on the slithering hose for any nonexistent leaks or knots. Gilbert has disappeared inside and should be back soon. Nonetheless, the excitement pounds through him. He shifts forward and back in his heavy boots. This isn't an accidental fire, nothing with faux electrical charges or something left on the stove too long. This is deliberate. This is a crime. This is arson. He breathes out, hands shaking. How exciting it is to be so near something deliberately dangerous.

The whir of sirens down the street marks the arrival of the police. No doubt to investigate for clues leading to the culprit. Alfred watches them quietly as they converse with each other, pointing towards the building. He feels a sudden pang, wishing he could join them. It stinks of containment to just be sitting here while everybody else, even at three in the morning, runs around with fevered purpose.

"Son?"

Alfred jumps and nearly detaches the hose from the water tank.

"Yeah?" He says to the policeman who'd manage to sneak up on him.

The man scratches his head, adjusting the gun on his belt. Alfred eyes it in unfettered awe. Sometimes he wishes he'd joined the police force. The man clears his throat again, drawing Alfred's attention back to his face. "There's another fire in the back," He says, waving, "A smaller one. I don't think your crew realized that. As we were driving we saw it through the trees. Do you think you could go back there and get it? We just don't want it to spread any farther."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." Alfred beams. "I'm on it."

"Thanks." The man smiles tiredly and heads back to his group.

Alfred glances around only to realize he's standing all alone. The fire chief and a couple others are helping direct the giant hose at the huge flames in the windows. Gilbert is nowhere in sight. For the most part, it looks like the front of the building is the only thing on fire. But apparently not.

Alfred arms himself with a couple buckets of water to scope it out. The scene grows eerily quiet from there as Alfred marches through the waist high dead grass. The guy must have really wanted to finish the job by coming back here. It's kind of odd, isn't it? Then again, he's never been in the mind of an arsonist. What does he know?

Once he sees the fire, he realizes it's not too bad. It'll take more water than what he has, but it doesn't look in danger of setting the whole field on fire.

The porch is the only thing. He strategically slops water in places to stop the fire from spreading. Pausing when he hears a noise, a rustling. He listens for a little bit before deciding it must have been an animal. The forest back here is way overgrown.

Alfred gathers his empty buckets and is about to head back when he hears the rustling noise again. His heart beats irrationally faster. Just an animal, obviously. From back here, he can only faintly here the chief and the roaring flames. The loudest noise is the soft crackling of the small fire, and that even has a nice sound too. Jolly, like a campfire.

Alfred swallows.

It doesn't matter that this is an old house that could quite potentially be haunted. It's just an animal in the forest not a vengeful spirit. He laughs nervously to himself. Blame it on scarring from a couple Halloweens gone wrong. Either way, he wants some help. Ghosts are freaking scary.

He starts to walk back, but a large object hidden in the grass causes him to trip and fall. "Shit." He mutters, sitting up quickly. There's no way in hell he'd be caught in such a weakass position by a spirit. He frowns though, realizing he's tripped over a can of gasoline.

The type used to start this fire. "No way," He whispers, beginning to grin. Talk about evidence. He'll turn this into the police and be a hero. He starts to reach for it, when the rustling sound echoes again. This time he can't handle it and calls out tentatively, "Who's there?"  
>There's no answer. Silence reigns for the space of a heartbeat.<p>

Then there's a large crack of a tree branch and the sound of what Alfred recognizes as beating feet. Alfred's eyes grow huge. Someone's running away! It has to be the arsonist. He scrambles to his feet and starts running in the direction of the noises, through thickets and brambles and dead trees.

"Hey! You! Wait up!"

It's not until he's chased the noises out of the forest and onto the road behind it that he sees the figure. A man, there's no doubt, running towards a car at the end of the street. Alfred breaks into a full sprint. There's no way the son of a bitch is getting away from him.

His clunky firemen's gear nearly costs him the win, but Alfred is far too used to heavy football pads. He manages a flying tackle as he closes in behind, slamming them both into the concrete. Coach would have been proud. As they struggle, it occurs to Alfred that he'll have to use a lot of force to get this guy back to the cops. The whole reason he never played football in college was because he hated giving guys injuries.

"Stop struggling." Alfred growls, managing to wrestle himself on top and hoping that the man will comply. It's only the adrenaline that has led him so far as to tackle someone. What if this guy isn't even the arsonist? Shit, there's a lawsuit.

But no, he's dressed in all black. A form fitting turtle neck full of burs from the bushes and torn in places from the branches. This has to be his man. Through a miracle Alfred pins the man's wrists to the pavement. "It's useless. You're caught. Stop struggling dude. The police are- Arthur?!" He interrupts himself in bewilderment when he finally catches sight of the man's face in the moonlight. Either his fantasies have finally done him in or...

The man stops struggling immediately. Those telltale green eyes flick upwards. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest heaving, cheeks red. "Alfred."

"Arthur." Alfred can only stare. He's partially shocked that Arthur remembers who he is. "It's you. Wow. I..." He starts to blush, completely forgetting where he is. "I can't believe you're here! What... what is..."

Arthur swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He clenches and then unclenches his fingers, wrists pinned down by Alfred's large hands. Alfred slowly takes in the all-black clothes, the heavy stench of gasoline. Arthur is looking at him in a calculating way.

"Oh my god... you're the arsonist! But... why... I don't understan-"

"Let me up!" Arthur snarls. It's commanding enough that Alfred obeys without thinking. He instantly regrets it when Arthur starts to run again.

"Wait! Stop!" He cries out, quickly grabbing onto his wrist. "Wait..."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that." Arthur snarls again, tugging against his grasp roughly. Beyond sounding angry, he sounds upset. Alfred tries to come up with a rational thing to do.

"Let go of me this instant, you big buffoon," Arthur continues furiously, "So I lit a fire and you got to put it out. You're just doing your job. Try not to get so excited you piss yourself."

Alfred blinks in shock at the vitriol in Arthur's words. He scans Arthur's green eyes trying to understand. "But... but why..." Alfred fights for some coherency. He tries to clear his head. He doesn't know what to do. This is Arthur, the cute book nerd from Peter's party.

"But... I want to talk to you." He manages lamely, knowing that talking to Arthur is probably the least important thing at the moment. At least considering that he should be dragging Arthur to the police.

It gets Arthur to stop tugging, though. He eyes Alfred warily.

"Just talk." Alfred promises in a soft whisper, holding up his right hand. To prove he's serious, he slowly lets go of Arthur's wrist. "Boy scout's honor."

Arthur looks conflicted. He sends a glance down the road. His green eyes are glittering dangerously. "Fine. We can talk." He snorts and starts walking towards his car. "It's about time you were on duty."


End file.
